Even the pines are industrial-park green.
Blue is the tarp, blue the crane,
blue the siding of Building 6
its smoke, the incinerated animals
of our biotech firm, commingles
with low clouds. (This city, like water,
waits for the end of industry.)
Now a jet, so quiet, jets past my cool
office window, past tall ships in the bay,
their masts like matchsticks
but burned, already burned.
And the pier, like a lean prehistoric monster,
has walked, headfirst, into the sea.